That night, Clara stood on the porch of the house she once ran from.
The air was clear after the rain, the stars crisp and scattered like glass across the sky. She had spent so many nights here as a child, watching the constellations her grandmother taught her to name. But now, they felt different. Closer somehow. Quieter.
Elias joined her with two steaming mugs. He handed her one without a word.
"I saw a photo today," Clara said. "My mother… and Thomas. Together. Before she was born."
He didn't respond right away. Just stood beside her, shoulders relaxed, gaze lifted upward.
Clara continued. "There's no proof. Not really. No names, no documents. Just that one picture. But… I see it. I see me in him. In her. In both."
Elias finally spoke. "Sometimes a photo tells a truth we already knew."
She looked at him. "You believe it, too?"
"I believe that what you feel matters more than what can be proven."
They sipped their tea. The porch creaked beneath them like a lullaby.
"I keep thinking about what that means," Clara whispered. "If he was her father, that means I come from a love that never got its ending. From a story that never finished being told."
"Maybe it's still being written," Elias said gently. "Through you."
Clara thought about that—how her life, this return, might be a continuation. Not a conclusion. A chapter that no one expected.
She turned back to the stars.
"When I was little," she said, "Gran told me the stars were wishes waiting to be heard."
"What did you wish for?"
She smiled faintly. "To feel less lost."
They stood in silence after that, watching the sky.
Then Elias whispered, "What if you're not lost, Clara? What if you're just… finally arriving?"
Clara's breath caught.
And for the first time in years, she didn't feel like she was chasing the past.
She felt like she was walking alongside it.